


Abrupt

by vague_flirting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day Fandom Challenge, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Multi, Romance, Season 3 Spoilers, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vague_flirting/pseuds/vague_flirting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A violin, a realization too late, and an unexpected stop by Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abrupt

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [30 Day Fandom Challenge](http://vague-flirting.tumblr.com/post/75424472855/30-prompts-to-be-completed-over-thirty-days-any), Day 2--"Love Letters".
> 
> It's late, but it's up, soo. Unedited, because I wanted to get it up ASAP.
> 
> This took a much different direction than I'd planned, but that's how writing works sometimes.

Sherlock was irritated at himself.  Ignorant!  He was so ignorant, and he’d missed all of the signs because of this oversight.  It had gone on so long, too, and because he hadn’t been keeping it in check, it suddenly hit him with a brutal force that refused to be repressed.

Sherlock was in love with John, and had been for most of the time he’d known the man.

He’d written the warm feelings he got around John off to that of strong friendship.  The odd fluttering feeling in his chest when John praised his deduction skills was due to appreciation towards one of the very few people who genuinely admired him.  The twisting of his gut when he thought of John during the period of time when the other man thought he was dead was simply loneliness, Sherlock wishing to be in the company of his friend.  The jealousy he felt towards Mary was nothing but his usual possessiveness.  The occasional nausea that cropped up during wedding planning was because he was unused to eating the regular meals that John insisted on after two years of bad eating habits.

It wasn’t until after John and Mary had made things official that the signs overwhelmed him and he had no choice but to acknowledge the truth.  The main part of the reception was over, and all that was left was the dancing.  Sherlock didn’t belong in that kind of environment, and probably never would, so he’d slipped silently out.

He was out in the cold night air, walking away from the music and chatter when he froze mid-step, every muscle locking into place.  There was a phantom pain within his chest, something he’d never felt before.

Sherlock’s mind whirred, drawing up memories from his time with John, analyzing them, and then quickly jumping to another memory and repeating the process.  Years of his life flashed through his mind in the span of a half-second, stretching out into infinite possibilities of what could have been, what has been, and what could be.

All of the breath _whoosh_ ed from Sherlock’s lungs, transforming into clouds billowing in the cold air.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock inhaled.  _I am in love with John Watson_.

All at once, Sherlock regained motion like he’d never lost it, sweeping off into the night to return to his lair and ponder his new revelation.

A short time later, Sherlock was back in 221B with his violin tucked absently beneath his chin.  The detective drew his bow across the strings, allowing muscle memory to steal his hands from him as his mind drifted, detaching from the world around him.

His bout of self-discovery had come too late, Sherlock concluded.  John was happily married to a lovely woman, now.  John had a _baby_ on the way.  The doctor worked very hard to conform to societal norms, something Sherlock only gave passing thoughts to, if that.  And, of course, John vehemently denied holding any attraction towards men.

Pursuing a relationship was inadvisable in Sherlock’s opinion.  It would most likely create feelings of discomfort within John and put a strain on their already changing relationship.  But not pursuing a relationship would require Sherlock to act as if he had not discovered romantic feelings for John.  And history had proven that John was unsettlingly capable of seeing straight through Sherlock. 

So Sherlock had himself a dilemma: come clean with a 87.6% chance that it would damage the best relationship he’d ever had or attempt to hide something that was adamant about being out in the open.

Obviously, Sherlock chose the latter.  He could suffer through the challenges of hiding something not easily hidden if it meant he could still have John as they were.

Sherlock knew he was not a sociopath.  He never had been.  He just told people that he was so that when he showed his coldhearted nature, they were less offended.  Oh, Sherlock certainly had emotions; strong ones, even.  But it had become a habit to violently repress them and anything associated with them, and it was not a habit he felt comfortable breaking.

But love.  _Love_ was a tricky emotion.  Before his realization about John, Sherlock believed the closest brush he ever had with love was with Irene Adler.  She’d fascinated him, and he felt that given more time and attention, the odd bit of affection he felt for her could have been nurtured into blossoming into full-blown love.  But he hadn’t had those things, and Irene was gone now, just red lipstick lips and whip-smart words dimming in his memory.

Sherlock tentatively prodded at the area in his brain that had been claimed by John’s love, testing its give.  It was rock solid, that part of him demanding to go see John _rightthisverysecond_ and loudly declare his feelings for him.  Sherlock was used to stifling emotions and relying on pure logic, but he’d never had to deal with full-blown love before.  It was going to be difficult, and Sherlock was going to have to be careful around John.

Sherlock's life would probably be a lot easier if he had remained ignorant.  But it was too late now.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, coming out of his mind palace to the soft sound of violin music drifting into his ears.  He didn’t immediately recognize the piece he was playing, but he must’ve learned it at some point if—

Sherlock abruptly stopped playing.  He hadn’t played that song since his violin instructor had taught him the piece when he was a child.  Usually, Sherlock played rather soothing, inspirational pieces to evoke clearer thought.  Never anything with emotion, certainly none like this piece.  The song he’d been playing was mournful with an undertone of deep caring, a song written for a lost lover.

His subconscious was clearly conspiring against him.  The detective was not even aware that his hands recalled that particular piece.  It was quite troubling.

Regaining his focus, Sherlock concentrated on playing the most aloof, cold violin pieces he knew.  He didn’t go back down into his mind palace, merely playing for the sake of playing and distracting himself from the thought of _John_.

Gradually, his playing morphed from known pieces to on-the-fly composition, something Sherlock did when he wanted a distraction.  The even, emotionless notes edged into dangerous territory; shortening and becoming louder and sharper.  Frustration echoed in the music, Sherlock’s focus slipping.  He gripped the bow tighter in his hand, the fingers of his other hand abruptly moving from string to string.

After a long while of violent crescendos and stilted low notes, Sherlock allowed exhaustion to claim him and he dragged himself into his woefully empty bed.

Over the next week, John and Mary were on their honeymoon.  Sherlock spent the week brooding and playing the violin.  He was absorbed in his thoughts of John, and allowed himself to fall into them while John was away.  Once the doctor came back, he would resume his normal behavior and do his best to lock up the way his heartbeat tripped over itself when he imagined John’s lips on his.

But Sherlock’s self-control continued sliding downhill, tumbling head over heels into the unchecked emotion he longed to share with John.  After two days, Sherlock permitted himself to play love songs on his violin.  He told himself that it was so that he could release his feelings in a way that didn’t involve shouting his love from the rooftops.  (The real reason was because all of his pent-up emotion was making him increasingly agitated, and he couldn’t stand the feeling of his skin being too small.)

It was this decision that was his downfall.  Once he started playing, the melodies varied from warm and affectionate to heart wrenchingly lonely.  He couldn’t play anything _but_ love songs.

Eventually, a pattern arose.  Sherlock unwittingly composed a ballad detailing his relationship with John from the very first time their eyes connected to the present.  Quiet, slow curiosity at their first meeting, but the speed quickly rising as they went on their first chase together, and light, barely there notes that increased in volume as a bond rapidly grew between them, a bond that John was willing to kill for.  The ups, the downs, the laughter, the arguments, the quiet dedication, and the words that should have been said; all of it was poured into this one composition, Sherlock’s heart and soul.

For five days, all Sherlock did was tweak and perfect John’s song.  He only stopped and succumbed to his base needs when they became unbearable.  Poor Mrs. Hudson had to be sick of hearing the same violin piece coming from upstairs over and over again.

Mary’s appearance shook him off-balance, giving him a sense of vertigo and uncertainty that nearly made him sway on his feet.

There had been no warning: no text, no call, nothing.

John and Mary had returned home from their honeymoon in the Caribbean, only making a quick stop by their new flat to drop off their bags before heading over to Baker Street.  They’d brought boxes over, intending to pack up the last of John’s things.

John had waved off Mary’s offer to help him take the boxes up to his old bedroom, telling her to go in and say hi to Sherlock.  John said he’d be up in a couple of minutes.

Mary walked into Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson, who had been anticipating the newlywed’s return, came out of her own flat to greet Mary.

“Mary!  My, am I glad you and John have returned.  Could you or the husband check up on Sherlock?”  Mrs. Hudson asked, face betraying how deep her concern was.

Mary’s smile at the elderly landlady’s appearance faded.  “What’s wrong?”

“Sherlock hasn’t left the flat the entire time you’ve been gone.  Been playing the violin practically nonstop, too, and such sad songs!  I’ve tried bringing him food, but he’s ate little, if any, of it.  I don’t know what’s wrong, the poor dear,” Mrs. Hudson fretted.

Mary’s eyebrows furrowed.  “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Hudson.  I’ll go upstairs and see what’s wrong with our detective.  In just a minute, John’ll be in, too.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Mary.  God knows Sherlock won’t talk to me about anything.”

Mary nodded sympathetically before departing, heading up the stairs.  She followed the faint sound of violin music up the stairs, and she paused in the open doorway to 221B.  Sherlock stood in the middle of the living area, eyes shut and intently focused on the piece he was playing.  The music he was playing was, as Mrs. Hudson had said, heart breaking.

Mary listened for a few impossibly long moments.  The music was filled with such sorrow and longing, a feeling of having let something that could have been earth-shattering slip out of reach.  That kind of strong emotion could really only be evoked in one way, and way that Mary was, unfortunately, familiar with from her varied dating history.

 _So, he’s finally figured out what everyone else has known all along_ , Mary thought.  _Poor sod._

“Sherlock…” Mary began, all of her sympathy pouring into her voice, with just a hint of disappointment.

Sherlock’s eyes shot open, ethereal music cutting off in a split second.  He hadn’t noticed Mary in the doorway.  He’d been replaying his ballad for John once more, hoping that perhaps this time he’d get it right.

Panic flared up at the imploring, searching look in Mary’s eyes.  She knew, she had to have figured it out and Sherlock was certain disaster was imminent.

Sherlock was about to flee, mortification welling, and words were taking shape on Mary’s lips when John arrived.

The moment shattered into a million pieces, and Sherlock inhaled sharply as he saw John for the first time since realizing he was in love with the man.  John was even more perfect in his imperfection than Sherlock remembered.

“Mary, can you help me with these?” John asked, struggling.  Mary reached out, helping him balance his small tower of empty boxes.

The two of them set the boxes down in the living room, and John smiled at Sherlock briefly.

“Hey, mate.”

Sherlock didn’t find it too hard to act casual around John.  It was much easier than he expected, probably because he’d been pouring his love for John into his music for the past week.  The looming sense of panic that came with Mary discovering his love for John made Sherlock worry less about outing himself to John as well.  Mary was most likely going to tell John anyway, so what was the point?

Pretending to work on an experiment, Sherlock observed the happy glow radiating off John and Mary, not just from their sunny honeymoon location.  They were truly happy together.  John didn’t need him anymore, and it stung, but Sherlock thought he might be able to get used to it.

John and Mary went into John’s old bedroom to pack up his things and came back out after a couple hours.  John was at the stove, cooking up a nice dinner for the three of them.  It reminded Sherlock so much of old times that it made his chest ache.  Sherlock’s mood was somber, but if John noticed it, he didn’t comment.

The kitchen table was covered with several of Sherlock’s experiments, so John and Mary sat on the couch that normally seated clients and Sherlock sat at his desk.

John and Mary made small talk while Sherlock picked at his dinner, pretending to read an article in scientific journal so he wouldn’t look like a lovesick puppy, staring after John.

Once John and Mary finished eating, the relaxed and sat back a bit more.

“Sherlock,” John said.

Sherlock looked up, raising his eyebrows.  “Yes, John?”

John tilted his head towards Sherlock’s violin.  “Will you play for us?”

Pressing down panic, Sherlock huffed.  “I suppose,” he said haughtily, standing up.

He plucked his violin from its perch next to his armchair, settling it comfortably beneath his chin.  “Would you like me to play the song I played at your wedding?” Sherlock asked, already mentally running through the intro.

“No,” John replied, and Sherlock’s eyes shot up to him, trying to decipher what he saw there.  John’s eyes were dark, steady as he met Sherlock’s stare.  “Why don’t you play something else?  Maybe something that reminds you of us.  Something reminiscent of all that we’ve been through together, and the things we have ahead of us, all three of us.”

Abruptly exhausted, Sherlock’s shoulders drooped as cold relief flooded his system.  Rejection, he’d expected, but… acceptance?  And that was clearly what John was offering him.  A chance to be with him, and with Mary.  Sherlock tried to say something, _thank you_ , _I was so sure I’d lose you because of this, I never imagined that you might want this, too…_ But no words came out.  He steeled himself, only then noticing how weak his knees felt and how tight he was holding the neck of his violin.

Sherlock was bad at expressing emotion through words, but maybe, just maybe, he could communicate in this way.  He could compose his love letter to John and, by association, Mary through the medium of musical notes and the pull of a horse-hair bow across strings.  It was all he could do, but from the looks on John and Mary’s faces, it was enough.

Sherlock picked up his bow, closed his eyes gently, and began to play the tune Mary had first heard.

Hours later, a certain detective laid bare, happy and sated, between the two people he held above all else.  Right where he belonged.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr! http://vague-flirting.tumblr.com/


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